A Candle's Fickle Flame
by CrowsGurl
Summary: Summary inside. Second person; Solkat, told from either side. Rated T for Karkat's mouth.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: Here's the deal, yo. I have no idea where this is going. I am so far out of the knowledge of the direction this thing is headed in that I don't even know what it's shipping yet. I'll lay out some options, whoever gets the most votes between here and dA will win. Dave, John, Sollux or Dirk are your options; the more reviews for one person, the more likely it'll turn into X/Karkat. So reveiw if you have any opinion or taste at all.**

**Disclaimers- Homestuck belongs to The Great Waste of Space; Never There and No Phone belong to Cake; Loser belongs to Beck. **

**It was the playlist I had playing when three am struck and I felt the need to write. Enjoy.**

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you have had this particular playlist on repeat for the last four hours. It is made up of only three songs that are forever going to be branded into your brain and will probably echo in your ears until your dying breath. That breath will be wasted on the final lyrics of the final song.

You never really liked this sort of music. You didn't dislike it, at least, enough to have it on your MP3 Player to begin with, but you've never made an active move to listen to it until now. Which is sort of stupid because he was the one who showed you this sort of music or some bull. They work now, though. So what the fuck ever.

Whenever you open your eyes they begin to burn, and when they burn they begin to tear up again, so you have been reduced to lying on your back, eyes scrunched closed, hands on your stomach and MP3 Player lying on the pillow beside you playing through the shitty speaker built in to the back. You wet your lips with a dab of your tongue and rasp along with the words idly. It's been long enough that you've memorized all three songs and no longer care for any of your other music.

In fact, this is your new answering machine on your cell phone, which is buried under the pillows in the corner of your room where you'd thrown it.

_"Jerking like a nervous bird, rattling up against his cage. Calls to me throughout the day. See the feathers fly. No phone, no phone; I just want to be alone today. No phone, no phone."_

You rub your stained face and rolled onto your side, curling up tighter in the sheets already tangled around your legs; hugging the denim of the over-sized jeans against your legs in all of the most uncomfortable ways. You are beyond the point of caring, squirming to try and move the fabric into place and only messing it up more.

_"Shaking, quaking, waking me when I'm asleep. Never lets me go too deep; summons me with just one beep. The price we pay is steep. I've been on fire, and yet I've still stayed frozen. So deep in the night my smooth contemplations will always be broken; my deepest concerns will stay buried and unspoken."_

An uncomfortable crack in your voice leaves you silent until the song ends. The next is like a slap to the face- it is every single time it comes on. But you refuse vehemently to take it off of the dwindling playlist.

_"I need your arms around me, I need to feel your touch. I need your understanding, I need your love- so much. You tell me that you love me so, you tell me that you care, but when I need you, baby, you're never there."_

A heavy sigh and you give up on lying on your side, instead flopping onto your back and squirming out of the jeans. They thump heavily off the foot of your bed with one last kick and you're reduced to a thin brown zippy and a pair of boxers. You blink away the stinging long enough to stare up at your ceiling. What did you ever do wrong? What the hell could you have done to prevent this?

_"On the phone, long long distance, always through such strong resistance. When first you say that you're too busy I wonder if you even miss me. Never there, you're never there. You're never ever ever ever there."_

Your phone is going off beneath the pillows and you only reach up to press the 'volume up' button on your MP3 Player. It's already on full blast. You pretend it gets loud enough to block out the ringing.

_"A golden bird that flies away, candle's fickle flame. To think I held you yesterday, your love was just a g-"_

Another crack and you feel frustrated tears welling up in your eyes. You belt out 'game' so venomously you almost feel the need to go upstairs and make sure you hadn't struck down whoever is above your apartment. You'll know if you hear sirens. Or a thump. Or both.

You roll onto your stomach, hiding your face in your pillows. Though that does little to console you. They still smell like him. You choke on your own curses as you harshly shove them all away and swipe the tears away from your face fast enough to leave behind a slight burn from your sleeves.

The asshole couldn't do this! He couldn't just fucking DROP YOU like that! He just _COULDN'T._

And if he was going to, he could at least fucking tell you why.

When your violent fit has a moment of clarity you realize your MP3 is now lying on the floor and has switched songs on you. You lean carefully over the side of your bed with the forced calm resolution that you'd do your laundry. Wash everything. Sort his clothing out of yours. Throw his away- or burn them, but in a city like this, you aren't sure where you'd find somewhere to do the deed. You find yourself snarling along with the song as you stagger to your feet with this decision in mind.

_"I'm a loser, baby, so why don't you KILL me?!"_

You start tearing through everything in your room, then the living room, then the apartment in general. The MP3 continues to sing along to your every action, encouraging you, fueling your emotional fit as you heap everything having any connection to him in the middle of the floor. Tears have since flooded your face, dried up and flooded it again, leaving all sorts of aggravated patches here and there on your cheeks. You gave up on keeping them dry.

An hour or two later and there are now four extra-big black trash bags sitting outside of your door. You are standing in the middle of the little living room area, dusting off your hands and looking around. It's so empty and all you can think about is his return from work. Loping through the front door with that infuriatingly warm grin, wrapping you up in an awkward hug and going to lounge over the entire couch like some douchebag.

The realization that it's not going to happen is crippling. It shoots through your heart and into your stomach, weighing it down to your toes and making you heels drag as you explore your new surroundings. They're cold and unfamiliar. Like a completely different apartment, though it's far from a fresh start.

More like the torturous aftermath on a battlefield that should have never been anything but a place of peace.

You sleep in the lobby of the complex that night. When the deskman wakes you up around six in the morning, the batter on your MP3 Player is dead and you realize you no longer have a laptop to charge it on.

**R&R and don't forget to vote, kay? **

**Dave, John, Sollux or Dirk. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Solkat won. Congrats, shippers. **

Your name is Karkat Vantas, you are twenty years old today and you hate living alone now more than ever.

For the last three years your best friend and current ex-boyfriend has pulled stupid shit without fail on this particular icky July day. You told him annually that you'd give him a drubbing if he did it again. This year the threat weighs heavily on your mind because you know he's not going to attempt to brighten your day.

No present on the pillow.

No cupcake in the kitchen.

No romcom in the DVD player.

Only an empty apartment greets you.

The AC gave up last night and is now nothing more than a silent giant; filling up almost the entire living room window. You cast it a wary glare as you stalk into the living room. A few things have been changed like the bedding, your choice in jackets (though you wouldn't wear one today if someone paid you) and you.

Last year on your birthday you were a semi-carefree brunette with happy red eyes and glowing white skin. This year you've done some major renovations; your hair has been bleached, the lower half dyed black, your eyes are a hideous scarlet and your skin is pale and marred with heavy bruises beneath your eyes. You've been counting your failures via piercing, which now line either ear, your eyebrow and your lip. You also have one in the center of your tongue and are considering one in your nose.

It has been exactly ten months since Gamzee broke up with you. You are still not over him. As a result, you have resolved to find someone to fill the bedroom across the hall from your own. Of course when you lived together, he stayed with you, but that was when the other room was for his guitars and freakish clown shit. It's vacant now (you left it in the hallway for a week and a half before it all vanished overnight, whether he took it or not isn't your concern) and you've convinced yourself in a fit of desperation that if you fill it, the apartment will come back to life.

You used the computer in the lobby to print out a few fliers. They will be tacked alongside lost kitten and free couch fliers beside the front door of a few local stores. It's sort of a bad idea considering it has your cell number and address, but you also know no one can get into the complex without being accepted by a resident.

The morning is wasted wallowing on the couch in a pair of dirty boxers while you remind yourself to shower every ten minutes or so. Eventually you do, then you're off to drown yourself in the city.

You've been told you don't get out enough. This is a point that is entirely valid, but you don't really give a shit about. Why should you get out more often? Skaia has enough fucks roaming the street at any given time. Not to mention just stepping off your front stoop made you a sitting duck to one of the two major gangs that practically ran the city; Derse or Prospit. They've played rolls in almost every political move made, pulling strings and paying off debts to make things happen. Anything to get a leg up.

Personally, you've never been one for anything like that. You're much happier in your simple quest to find a suitable roommate who won't make you regret your very birth. As far as you are concerned, no such person exists, but this does not stop you from keeping a hand on your cell once the fliers are hung and you're simply ambling along up one street and down the next.

You doubt you're going to find anyone even interested, but it's worth a shot.

Without much thought you find yourself wandering down toward the park. It's not somewhere you go very often, but it's familiar all the same. A few smaller details have changed -young trees here, a new attachment to the playground there- but it's overall still the same place you first met Gamzee. You were just tots back then; back before the real world had taken over. It was easy, then. If you were friends then you were friends. Life was good and nothing hurt.

Looking back on it, you find yourself cursing the younger you who had been so happy and easygoing. It wasn't fair that he was perpetually feeling like that when now you were so lost, in so far over your head.

You had moved away with your father, leaving your mother and your best friend behind for a long, long time. Nearly ten years. The second you turned eighteen you packed your shit up and came running home, only to find your mother long gone and Gamzee so far off-track. He'd been a horrible addict and was so ensnared in the gang life that it took you a good two or three years to finally free him of his chains.

Things had just been evening out for the two of you when he left. It was sudden and painful and-

And you'd rather not think about it.

A few kids are chasing a large Indian rubber kickball and you hold out a foot to stop its rolling; bouncing it back to them. They smile and you hunch your shoulders and continue on your way. They don't give you a second glance.

Closer to the little artificial pond is a little old man tossing grain to the pigeons. The ratbirds are one of your favorite kinds, if only because they're the only sort you see on a regular basis. No one likes them simply for being what they are. They're ugly and awkward in just about every way. They're sort of like you, you think.

You sit down at the opposite end of the bench, watching through your peripheral vision as the hideous things do their strange Egyptian waddle around, pecking and plucking the seeds and crumbs up off of the sidewalk. The old man is smiling a toothless smile (it's all gums and you're not sure if you like it or if it's too creepy to consider) and you both jump when a few reckless pricks on skateboards come rushing down the way; scattering the birds and nailing one.

It gives a broken flap of its splayed wings, releasing hoarse chirps and scrawls as it attempts to right its broken body. You can see the old man panicking a bit, leaning down to try and help the avian but he stops short because there was nothing to be done. You stand up briskly and abscond the park.

The birds were a lot like you, actually.

You throw up when you get home.

Your phone doesn't make a sound all night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Here's some perspective from Sollux before he gets dragged into Karkat's little angst-parade. Most of it will be written from Karkat's POV, though, and expect a descrip for Sol in the next chapter, sorry. I'll have Karkat do the explaining.**

Your name is Sollux Captor and you've recently hit a serious run of bad luck.

It probably started with taking your job like a joke. A bad one, at that. You're twenty-five and you're better with tech than everyone else; below or above you on the hierarchy. This lead to frustration, so you started leaving subtle little hints to show them who was really boss.

Subtle little hints meaning devastating bugs that no one else knew how to cure. They either came to you or lost their computers.

Of course that could only last for so long before they started to realize what was going on. Eventually you were found out, but the idiots didn't fire you. They only demoted you. Which pissed you off because being demoted is worse than being fired because, at least if your fired, they can't say anything of you. Demotion was an opening for condescending and snide bullshit you don't fair well with. This also lead to a dock in your pay.

A week or so later, the rent for your shitty little loft over some Asian restaurant went up. The summer rush was over and they needed the extra cash. You wouldn't have cared so much if they'd given you some sort of discount on their food- but no. They hardly speak English and are impossible to reason with.

Because of this you have casually boycotted buying their food. It wasn't that good anyway. Sometimes you purposely go to other Asian food places nearby and walk through their lobby wielding your spoils like some victory trophy. Suffice to say they don't appreciate it.

Which.. may or may not be why they've given you an eviction notice.

You brushed it off because they've pulled that shit before, but they seem serious about it this time. For now, however, you're more distracted with trying to find half-priced loot at the local Food Lion so you'll still have enough money left over for your pops.

You turn down the cereal aisle, looking for something generic that can last you a week and not break the bank. A mother at the other end takes one look at you, grabs a box of something random (much to her toddler's displeasure) and vacates. You merely snicker.

A box of Cocoa Balls, a half pint of milk and a couple bucks later you're picking up a plastic bag and slipping it around your wrist. The cashier gives a half-assed have a nice day before turning her dead eyes to the next costumer. You can't blame her; it's probably six by now and her shift would have started at some obscenely early hour.

Pausing by the gumball machine, you pull out a handful of change and sift through it for two quarters. While you press them into the slots your eyes happen to trail up to the various listings hanging on the announcement board.

Six Beagle Mixes- $20 ea.

Moving; Free Couch w/ Matching Recliner Set.

Missing Cat: Help Find Mister Whiskers!

Child Daycare: Six Days a Week, Pay by Age.

You roll your eyes, crouching down to pick up the red gumball (your luck does suck; you always get the yellow ones) and pop it into your mouth. You take one last look at the boards before starting to walk away- then something occurs to you and you step back, nearly bumping into an elderly lady as she shambles past with a dry curse.

LOOKING FOR A ROOMATE.

The grey print stands out against the rest of the colorful adds. It's on a simple white background with some text below it. Curiosity prickles at your fingertips until you reach up and tear it off; not bothering to remove the thumbtacks holding it down.

You stroll out into the parking lot, skimming the rest of the flyer. You're being evicted, so might as well give it a second thought.

Two bedrooms, small living room, kitchenette, single bathroom. Preferably no one who's going to make a shitload of noise- as in, no kids, no loud music and no pets.

A snicker escapes your lips. Sounds like a douchebag. Tempting. It's signed off as 'Karkat Vantas' with the address of a complex a few blocks away and a cell number. You pull out your phone as you turn the corner and cross the street, though it reads six twenty-three and you doubt this Karkat would like to receive a call so early.

Which is why you give him the rest of the five minute walk home before tossing your shit in the fridge, yourself on the couch and dialing the number. It only rings once before a voice comes through, snappish and not at all tired. You snort and he flies off the handle about being woken up so early. You tell him to shut the fuck up and listen. He mocks your lisp, though complies after and the two of you agree to meet up later that week.

You think you've just found your new roommate.


	4. Chapter 4

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you are currently panicking over what to wear.

It's stupid and trivial and he probably won't even care, but you were always told that a first impression was key. You don't want to look like utter trash like you do on a normal day, but you don't want to look like a rich snob, either. Your wardrobe has slowly reaccumulated, now made up of your _own_ clothing, and you still haven't had time to put a title to each outfit.

That shirt was uncomfortable. Those jeans were too big. This was one of his favorite shirts, but it was tattered to hell and back. Those pants were comfy, but sweats in public simply screamed "hopeless slob."

You pause momentarily and realize how stupid everything you're thinking is and, before your train of thought can be drawn back onto the tracks, you grab a wife beater, turtleneck and a pair of grey skinnies. That worked. Whatever. You throw it on to make it look like a casual choice and stashed everything else back into the closet before you stalk out into the living room. It wasn't the cleanest, but it certainly wasn't the messiest this apartment had ever been. A stain here or there (or everywhere) on the carpet and battered old furniture promised that much.

An anxious sigh slips through your lips, tongue gliding idly over them and the respective piercings clicking lightly as they met. Time to get out of here or he'd be late- and that was bullshit he refused to put up with.

The caf'e was a pretty well-known joint, set at a quiet intersection between hipster street and bum avenue. Everyone here is either laid back or has a huge pole up their ass with a blinding sign strapped onto their forehead that pretty much screamed flaming douchebag. You are neither of these things and have been coming to this particular coffee house since it was a different, Ma and Pa styled breakfast place. It had been nice, too... then their ambitious granddaughter had taken over and forsaken it with flashy renovations. You don't like it, but not enough to stop you from coming back like a bad cold.

No one pays you any mind as you sit at one of the two-person tables out on the small front patio. There are no places to sit inside beyond the coffee bar, but you're too short (compact) to sit on the barstools without making a fool of yourself. It is approximately fifteen minutes past your appointed time of meeting; such being two thirty. It was after the local lunch rush and before any of the schools get out. Your thin fingers drum on the glass table, pausing only to run through the condensation on the outside of your frozen whateveritis. Iced something or other.

Where is he? Why the fuck isn't he here yet? Did he stand you up- no.

This is not a date. This is not even vaguely the equivalent of a date. Unless the date is referring to a calendar on which you marked your platonic meeting- in which case, yes, this is a date. You can't help it; ever since you gave up on Makara making some grand return to sweep you off your feet in a last-second redemption, you've been perking at every little chance to not be alone. Anything to stop being alone. Of course that would explain the whole wardrobe freak-out.

You're really going to fuck this up. You're already sure of that much. He probably saw you- no, he felt the waves of _clusterfuck waiting to happen _rolling off of you and did the right thing. He turned his ass around, tail between his legs, and fled the scene before he could be noticed. You can't really blame him, considering-

"Holy thit, are you really that lonely?" A familiar voice mocks and you just about jump out of your skin. Red eyes widen in shock, then immediately shoot up (and up and up) at the lanky idiot standing before you. "How long have you been muttering to yourthelf like that, exthactly?"

"Shut the fuck up, I was not."

"Waveth of cluthterfuck waiting to happen," he replies with a smug smirk you want to knock off of his thin face.

"Ugh. What the hell took you?"

"Obviouthly I wath being fathionably late."

You scowl harshly.

"Calm your titth, jeguth. The thtupid lobby back at my plathe wath full and I wath waiting it out."

"You couldn't just shove your way out?"

"I'm not four foot two," he snickers, waving a hand over your head. You swat at him and growl. "And I don't bite."

"Asshole," you mutter.

"What?"

"Oh, let me rephrase that so you can understand me. _I thaid you're an athhole_."

"Ouch. You didn't have to be a total douthebag about it."

"Whatever."

You can tell he's glancing you up and down from behind his obnoxious 3D glasses, so you take the liberty to give him a quick once-over with your eyes. He's freakishly tall and whippet thin with scruffy honey-brown hair and two pieces that hang down longer in front of his ears. His hands look like fucking basketballs at the ends of toothpicks when he fists his hands idly, thumbs tucked into his pockets.

"Tho are you jutht going to thit there and check my thmokin' bod out all day, or are we actually going to dithcuth the apartment?" He asks, a smirk planted firmly on his lips. It only grows more infuriating when he snorts at the faint (probably really bad, you're freakishly pale) blush he receives with your sputterings.

"I was not checking you out. _There's nothing to check out._ You could get blown away by a fuckin' breeze."

"Thayth the ethcapee from Funland. Thould I take you back before your parentth thtart pethtering the day care manager?"

"Holy fucking fuck of all fucks, I'm not a kid."

"You look like one."

"Sorry," you snark, "_no pedophiles allowed in my complex_."

"You mutht be tho dithappointed, little guy," he coos teasingly, reaching down to pinch your cheek. Your kneejerk reaction is to audibly slap his hand away.

"Don't fucking touch me."

"I wath jutht thitting you, no need to get defenthive."

"Are we talking about the fucking apartment or not?"

You're sure he rolls his eyes and he sits down, tipping his chair back a bit as he slouches comfortably. He's already annoying the absolute fuck out of you, but you find yourself describing your little slice of hell anyway. Your neighbors, your deskman, even mentioning your job when it comes down to how payments would work. Your utilities are sort of pitifully cheap because you never really do anything, and you two decide to just add everything up and split it down the middle.

Once you finish your coffee you toss the cup and decide to show him around the complex. He's not... _too_ horrible, you guess. Bearable, at least. And you won't be home very often. Just as long as your apartment stops being half empty.

You could get used to this.

**spur of the moment update.. c: sort of short, but it gets the point across**


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